


Project Runway East vs. West

by ladyshmelton



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Project Runway Fusion, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fashion Designer Alec Lightwood, Fashion Designer Magnus Bane, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Journalist Magnus Bane, M/M, Panic Attacks, Police Officer Alec Lightwood, Police Officer Jace Wayland
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26013286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyshmelton/pseuds/ladyshmelton
Summary: Alec Lightwood never believed he could be a fashion designer.Magnus Bane dreamed of being NYC's top fashion designer.When Project Runway begins its search and subsequent season of East vs. West, both men find themselves competing for the right to show at New York Fashion Week and to become the winner of this season of Project Runway. The changes, challenges, and romances they encounter make the season all the more challenging.
Relationships: Alec Lightwood & Isabelle Lightwood, Alec Lightwood & Jace Wayland, Magnus Bane & Ragnor Fell & Catarina Loss & Raphael Santiago, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Comments: 11
Kudos: 38





	1. I Dare You to Do Something

**Author's Note:**

> LOOK WHO'S BACK. BACK AGAIN. TELL A FRIEND.
> 
> This has been a headcanon of mine since early March. Since then, I've been religiously watching season after season of Project Runway, making Pinterest boards of designs, and mapping characters. This is by no means a complete work, nor is it anywhere near complete. Updates will be sporadic as I am working and completing my master's, but I'm dedicated to completing this. I love this universe and hope you will as well. Enjoy!

The news comes through on a Tuesday in March. 

Alec feels his cell phone vibrate in his jacket pocket while working a crime scene at one of the warehouses in Cobble Hill. The salty breeze flutters the yellow police line tape roping off the warehouse and several feet outside the main door. He separates himself from the crime scene, waving briefly at Jace to signal him stepping away. On his phone, _Isabelle Lightwood_ flashes. “Izzy, is everything okay? I’m in the middle of a case,” he says in lieu of a greeting. 

“ALEC YOU DID IT!” 

He jerks the phone away from his ear as Izzy continues to scream. A quick glance around confirms he is far enough away from the forensics crew and other loitering police officers for them not to overhear his conversation. Perks of an active crime scene: no one lingering in a side alley to hear his sister’s mysterious exuberance. Alec apprehensively moves the phone closer to his face. “Izzy, people in California heard you. Bring it down a few decibels and explain what, exactly, I did?” 

“You received a _call back_ , _h_ _ermano_! Oh, this is so exciting! I wasn’t sure you would, because so many people try out for it every season, but you have so much talent that I just kept hoping –“ 

“Izzy,” he interrupts. “What call back?” 

The line falls silent. Uneasiness begins to seep into him. Isabelle Lightwood exudes light and joy and nearly unending _noise_ (a trait she picked up when she started dating Simon). Her silence now speaks volumes, indicating her nervousness and uncertainty. Normally Alec is quick to reassure her. He takes his role as big brother quite seriously and does his best to lift up his siblings and banish their doubts and fears. 

The unease that continues to build within him prevents that now. “Isabelle, _what call back_?” 

A sigh crackles into his ear. “Project Runway, Alec. You received a call back to the next step. The live audition step.” 

Unease turns to confusion. For a moment he gapes at the billboard across the street, promoting the ad for an injury lawyer, rendered speechless. He never submitted anything to Project Runway. He wouldn’t risk the life he’s built by putting himself out there like that. There must be some mistake. 

Only when Izzy begins speaking does he realize he voiced that last thought out loud. “Please don’t be mad, Alec, but I signed you up. I sent in photos of the designs you created for me and for Clary. We also sent in video testimonies and references from friends who borrowed the clothes.” 

Isabelle continues talking, but her words disappear in the sound of blood rushing through his ears. Confusion becomes dread, flowing ice-cold through his veins. It only lasts a moment before anger sweeps in. “You did what?” he snaps. 

“I submitted an application in your stead. You have talent, Alec, more than you give yourself credit for. You could take this thing all the way, if you allow yourself the room to feel and tap into your creative talents.” 

“Isabelle, you had no right to go behind my back and do that! You’re asking me to uproot my entire life for this, this pipe dream that evaporated long ago. I don’t want this anymore, Izzy –" 

“No. Don’t ‘Izzy’ me and reject this before we’ve even talked about it. When you get home tonight, we will talk it out. I’ll even let you make a pros and cons list. But for now, just…think about it?” 

The way she phrases the order into a question softens his resolve. Despite his reaction, Isabelle meant no harm – she never does. It’s her saving grace against his current frustration. For now, the sharp curl of anger softens enough for him to shove it to the back of his brain. “Fine. Yeah, I’ll think about it.” 

“Thank you! Okay, I have to go now. An important update just came through that I need to post to Twitter. See you tonight, big brother!” 

“Bye, Iz.” The call disconnects, leaving Alec to stare at the billboard in silence again. Or relative silence, as the background noise of the city flows around him. He allows himself a handful of minutes to gather his composure and return to the headspace of working an active case. Whereas before the gentle breeze with the smell of salt and fish was calming, now turns his stomach. With a sigh, he turns and makes his way back to the crime scene. 

* * *

Alec trudges down the hallway toward the apartment he shares with Isabelle and Jace. He spent the hours since Izzy’s phone call trekking back and forth between Jersey City and Brooklyn, chasing down various leads and working closely with the detectives across the river. His black button down under his leather jacket is slightly crusty with dried sweat. Today was an unseasonably warm day, meaning he ended up drenched in sweat while traipsing all over the city. Jace had left around six with some excuse about a hot date, leaving Alec to finish up their paper trail for the day. Because of course he did. The clock on his phone alerts him that the time slipped into the evening hours quite some time ago. The aches of the day settle heavy in his bones. Absently, he remembers that he skipped dinner in favor of paperwork. 

_Noise_ assaults his ears the moment Alec pushes open the apartment door. He pauses, eyes closed, and door cracked, and counts to ten. The quiet night in he had planned while his siblings were out with their respective dates vanishes. Stepping inside, he deposits his jacket on the rickety coat stand in the corner of the entry hallway. He hangs a right into the kitchen instead of continuing down the short hallway into the living room. Intent on getting food and figuring out how to slip past his siblings, Alec forgets the booby trap that is their door. The soft-shut mechanism on the hinges wore out somewhere around three months after they moved in. That was nearly four years ago. It slams shut behind him with an echo. 

The raucous laughter dips before a shout of “ALEC!” rings through the apartment. As he pulls the leftover Thai food from the refrigerator, Isabelle sways into the kitchen. A glass of wine dangles from her fingers. 

Alec eyes the glass. “Date night at home tonight?” 

“Of course! You agreed to talk about the audition, and I needed reinforcements.” 

“Reinforcements for – oh.” He had actively worked to forget about the audition all day. Somewhere in the rush of running around the city, he had succeeded in that endeavor. Now, trapped in his apartment with Izzy and God knows who else, the fear and anger return with a vengeance. 

Isabelle snags his wrist and drags him into the small living room, Thai food forgotten in the microwave. “Look who finally showed up!” Simon, Clary, and Jace al blink up at him. Simon sits on a small green ottoman thing (pouf?) that Izzy demanded they buy from some overly-priced furniture store. Jace sprawls on the only couch, Clary tucked into his side. Each holds some type of alcohol in their hands in various states of emptiness. “Okay, we all know why we’re here.” Izzy pushes Alec onto the couch beside Jace while she folds herself gracefully onto the ancient wingback chair next to the green ottoman…pouf. She crosses her sweatpants-clad legs. “Alec graciously agreed to hear us out in why he should give this amazing opportunity a shot. We –” she gestures to the trio sitting around him. “have spent the last two hours coming up with dozens of reasons why you should do this. But first, let’s hear from the defense.” She smirks at Alec. He rolls his eyes at her. Ever since she started dating Simon, who works as a temp at some law firm in Staten Island while waiting for his rock band to make it big, she had begun adding law terms into her vocabulary. Alec can’t say they have won her any arguments; Isabelle already possessed a natural talent for winning arguments as is. Why she went into media instead of law, he will never now. 

He clears his throat uncomfortably, feeling the leaden weight of four sets of eyes on his skin. All his righteous anger and bravado escapes him now. “U-um…well, there’s my…work. I don’t even know how long this thing would last, since I’ve never watched Project Runway. I can’t take off too much time from work –” 

Jace snorts. Alec pauses and narrows his eyes at his brother. Jace rolls his eyes at him. “You’re going to need a better excuse than that. First, I know you watched at least part of a season with Izzy when she was sick last year. Second, we all know you have at least six months built up in personal and sick days because you don’t believe in self-care. So time off will be easy to come by.” 

Alec chews his lip. Jace had a good point: Alec never took time off. How does one plan a vacation when crime never stops? His last attempt at taking a day off resulted in him being called in at 2 am to help the night crew process a drug and sex trafficking ring that spanned nearly four states. Point: Jace. He moves to the next item on his evasion list. “What about rent and utilities? How will you pay them without my share being sent to Iz through PayPal? I know you both make decent money, but I can’t just allow you to cover my share, and who knows if or how often they will allow me access to my phone.” 

Isabelle laughs. “As if I haven’t known your PayPal password for _years_.” 

Alec…isn’t as surprised by that information as he should be. His sister tends to ignore his privacy more often than not. “Of course you do.” Alec rolls his eyes at her. The evasion list is beginning to run low on ideas. One of his hands moves to pick at the frayed fabric on the arm of the couch. He decides to try the classic big brother card next. “What about you guys? I know I’m…not always willing to go out with you, but _someone_ has to make sure you guys get home safe. Who else will protect Isabelle and Clary when they’re drunk and getting hit on by equally drunk guys during Simon’s gigs? Don’t give me that look, Jace, you know you aren’t reliable after three shots and a beer.” 

Jace grumbles something unintelligible under his breath. Izzy glares at Alec. “Oh please, Alec. Clary and I are perfectly capable of handling ourselves. Or have you forgotten that I also took eight years of martial arts training with you?” 

He softens marginally. “No, of course I didn’t forget. I’m sorry, that was low.” He closes his eyes and huffs. He is perilously close to running out of evasion tactics. “Okay. See, the thing is, there’s this squirrel in Flatbush that is mounting an attack on the pigeons. Sounds crazy but hear me out. I’ve watched him every couple of days now, and if I leave, who will document this interspecies battle? This squirrel is outmatched but he may just pull it off. He doesn’t have tiny swords to fend off the birds yet. They may take the early lead. See, I can’t go, you all need me, and the squirrel needs me, and –” 

“Alec.” He snaps his mouth shut, aware of just how ridiculous he sounded ranting about the wildlife in the city. Izzy eyes him, her gaze sharp despite the multiple glasses of wine he’s sure she’s had. “Big brother, I don’t know what most of that was about, but it was all bullshit.” She takes his hand. “Please, tell me what this is really about?” 

Alec looks down, plucking absently at a seam in the couch with his free hand. How does he vocalize the glaring insecurity he has carried since he first picked up a needle and thread? How does he explain that he’s not quite _good enough_ to call himself a designer? What high-end fashion designers had to smuggle sewing patterns into their bedroom as teenagers to puzzle over the instructions? Alec has never categorized himself as a designer because he’s never had their experiences or formal training. That feeling coalesced when he not-quite-accidently stumbled into a New York Fashion Week show a few years ago and watched the models strut the designs down the runway. So many little events transpired that somehow led to this outrageous opportunity presenting itself, asking him to turn his life upside down for…what? A dream he long ago accepted could never be his. Alec glances at Izzy, locking eyes with her briefly. She smiles, part encouragement, part concern. He looks away quickly. If he tells her the truth, she will heap praise after praise upon him. She will recruit Jace and Clary and Simon to do the same, maybe even call some of the anonymous people she allowed to wear his designs for her (without his permission or knowledge). Izzy fails to see her own bias towards him, though. Telling her the truth won’t change his mind. 

He squeezes her hand before he stands. “It’s been a long day. I need to shower and go to bed. Jace, don’t stay up late – we need to finish tracking down a potential suspect tomorrow.” 

Isabelle calls after him as he disappears down the hallway. Alec ignores her and slips quietly into the bathroom. His decision is made. 

Of course, as he strips perfunctorily and goes about his shower, no decision is ever truly black and white. Emotions color every decision, casting them in shades of gray. Alec knows that Izzy’s decision to submit an application for him was borne of love, of utter belief in his skills (unfounded as that may be), and of a concern for him. She refuses to believe that he is happy. She believes that he went into law enforcement solely for her. No matter how often or fervently he explains his decision, she maintains that his career is her fault. This leads her to make decisions that encourage him to change fields, to pursue what she believes to be his passion. 

Alec dunks his head beneath the shower spray and closes his eyes. Usually Izzy’s attempts at pushing him toward something new don’t hit this close to home. Usually she begs him to take silly little seminars or classes to find a new passion. Once he was forced into a writing workshop with Simon under the guise that Simon needs to learn new ways to write his lyrics for his band (dubbed Champagne Enema at the time); another time she teamed up with Jace to drag him to a cooking class. This time, she had stumbled upon the one thing he loves but could never commit to in fear of losing everything. He steps out of the shower and glares at the fogged-up mirror. His anger drained away long ago. Now he feels empty, hollowed out by regret and disappointment. And a clawing hunger as he remembers the forgotten Thai food. He sighs. He rushed his dream once before; he can do it again. Giving up all he knows for a misguided shot at something uncertain isn’t a risk he’s willing to take. With that, he forces it from his mind and begins his bedtime routine. 

* * *

The stormy darkness of three am soothes Alec. After tossing and turning until the noise from the living room disappeared, he had finally fallen into an uneasy slumber. The unusual early spring thunderstorm currently raging outside had woken him. Having abandoned all pretense of sleeping tonight, he leans against the wall by the windows in the living room. The window nearest him sits open ever so slightly, allowing the fresh scent of rain to cleanse his heartache. 

It’s not like he enjoys crushing Izzy’s dreams for him. Hell, at one point, her dream for him had been his own dream. It had been soft and fragile and oh so beautiful. He cherished it in its youth. He nurtured it. For years he snuck various fabrics and patterns (all acquired from garage sales or from the local thrift store, when they happened to carry them) into his room, teaching himself to hand sew until he bought his very first sewing machine at a garage sale. The machine had been hidden behind a bush near the garbage cans for a few days until his parents had left for some weekend-long medical convention. Alec knew, even at the tender age of thirteen, that his hobby would not be supported by his parents. Robert Lightwood had actively been pushing him to join various sports while Maryse enrolled him in educational summer camp after educational summer camp in hopes that he would follow them into the medical field (or at the very least, into engineering). Revealing to them that he dreamed of designing clothes would have resulted in stern lectures, reminders of familial responsibility, and more time away at weekend camps. He is a Lightwood, after all. Lightwoods are destined for greatness. 

So he let it go. He crushed his dream beneath his heel, grinding it down with evening after evening of running sprints up and down the lane leading from their porch to the road for football conditioning. The little sewing machine stayed hidden. Isabelle was sworn to secrecy, though of course over time Jace stumbled upon the machine. Luckily, he had only cocked his head at it and asked Alec if he could sew his varsity letter onto his letter jacket. 

And in time, Alec came to adopt different dreams. None of them burned with the same passion as that first one had, but he kindled them as best he could. After graduating in the top 1% of his class, he went to college. For two years he slogged through a pre-med degree. Until the night Izzy was nearly raped after being slipped a date rape drug in her first year of college. The cops botched the investigation, so the man was never charged. Alec took his rage at the situation and transformed it into his new purpose: to prevent anything like that from happening to someone else’s sister. The following day, he changed his major to criminal justice. After graduating, he enrolled with the police academy and was quickly tracked towards the detective department. His parents snubbed him for entering the police force, but it was honorable work that suited him more than becoming a doctor. 

Maybe it’s because of the thunderstorm, or perhaps his pre-occupied brain, but he doesn’t hear Jace until the blonde stands next to him. Alec twitches at the intrusion. His body recognizes home and refuses to rise to the occasion to fight off a scare. The lukewarm decaf in his mug swirls softly. They stand in silence for several minutes, allowing Alec to continue to bask in the soothing scents of an early spring thunderstorm in silence. 

“You know this storm was supposed to be snow, not rain?” 

Alec hums at Jace’s comment but otherwise remains quiet. He appreciates the change from snow to rain. Not having to trudge through snow tomorrow while canvassing the warehouse for more clues as to their killer is a nice change from the expected. However, the weather isn’t Jace’s reason for tracking him down in the earliest hours of the morning. Though adopted, he and Alec have a relationship closer than most blood brothers. Alec knows to wait Jace out in order to get to the heart of the issue. 

A handful of minutes later, Jace sighs. “I can’t force you to go to the audition, but I know you will regret it if you pass up this opportunity.” 

“And what makes you think that?” Alec shoots back. 

“You aren’t _happy_ , Alec! Sure, you put up a good front and are a master at going through the motions, but you aren’t truly happy. You don’t have the spark in your eyes that I know exists within you.” 

Alec snorts. Such a line. “Okay. I’ll bite. How do you know that spark even exists?” 

Jace turns to him. His eyes shine with sincerity. “Because I see it when you’re designing clothes.” Alec stiffens, but Jace plows on. “You smile more, and actually laugh at some of your mistakes or at the stupid things Izzy and I do. You are never as passionate about things as when you are designing or sewing or whatever else it is you do to make clothes. That passion lightens you, makes you happy and carefree for days afterward.” He clasps Alec’s shoulders, grip just shy of too tight. “And without that passion, Alec, you aren’t you. When Clary first met you, she asked me if I ever thought that in a past life you were an old woman with ninety cats who enjoyed yelling at the neighborhood kids. And I had to agree with her. She hadn’t seen you doing what you love. But I knew better. I knew what you could do and who you could become when given the chance.” Jace squeezes his shoulders where he holds them tight. “Tell me what’s going on in your head.” 

Alec sighs. Jace speaks a semblance of truth, no matter how hard Alec tries to deny it.He remembers the feeling that follows him after completing a new piece for Izzy or Clary. It feels like he’s walking on cloud. Something about slogging through patternmaking and coming out on the other side with a perfected design makes him glow on the inside. The truth bubbles up and spills out of his mouth. “What if I’m not good enough?” The words cut his throat like broken glass. 

Jace jerks away from him. “What?!” 

Alec turns to fully face the window. His arms wrap around his chest in a futile effort to protect him from the harsh truths, coffee mug shaking slightly. “I’ve only ever designed clothes for Izzy, and recently Clary. And while they both have a wide range of clothing requirements, they are still just two people with their own tastes. I only know how to design things for them. Plus, I never went to design school. I don’t know half of the things that most real designers do, and even less than what the pros know. I may not have seen much of Project Runway, but I have seen enough to know that they don’t accept amateurs. And that’s what I am, Jace! I’m an amateur! I don’t, don’t _sell_ my clothes, or take clients or custom jobs or whatever it’s called. How am I supposed to compete with people who do all those things? Who actually have the, the experience that I don’t?” 

By the time he finishes his outburst, he is panting slightly. They stand in silence save for the gentle sounds of the receding thunderstorm. Eventually, Jace touches Alec’s bicep and gently spins him around. His mismatched eyes search Alec’s face. He huffs. 

“Izzy is better at feelings,” he grumbles. “Pretty sure I hit my daily quota during my ‘follow your passion’ speech. Alec, they wouldn’t offer you an audition spot if they thought you were a true novice. Everyone who appears on that show is an amateur in that they haven’t yet made a name for themselves, hence their presence on the show. You are no less talented than them. So, get out of your own way and see yourself how Izzy and I see you for a change. Just...give this” Jace offers a lop-sided smile. 

Alec gives him a small smile in return. His brother has...something of a point. Despite his misgivings and crippling fear of failure, Alec knows he has something resembling talent. Isabelle wouldn’t wear his designs if they failed to meet her high expectations. She would still offer praise, but she wouldn’t wear his clothes. With that thought in mind, he nods. “Fine.” The smile turns vicious. “How do you know so much about Project Runway contestants?” 

Jace groans. “Damn Izzy and Clary and their ‘girls’ nights’. They always made me play bartender and food delivery boy.” They share a laugh before Jace yawns. He shoots Alec a questioning glance, concern lingering in his eyes. 

“I’m fine, Jace.” Alec smiles, small and genuine. For the first time since yesterday morning, he doesn’t feel anger or quiet anxiety sliding down his spine. The nerves remain, of course; who wouldn’t be nervous when presented with this opportunity? However, giving words to his suppressed fears helped him begin to come to terms with them. He will never overcome these feelings of inadequacy and inevitable failure if he never faces them head on. 

That thought in mind, he clasps Jace’s shoulder. “Honestly, Jace. I’m good. I’ll talk to Izzy tomorrow about moving forward with the audition. I will give this a chance.” 

Jace smiles and nods. Knowing they have an early wake up, Alec gestures for them to return to bed. They make their way to their respective bedrooms in companionable silence. As Alec settles beneath the sheets, sleep already tugging at him, he discovers a pinprick of excitement hovering in the back of his brain. Maybe this opportunity will lead him to something he refused to dream he could have. 


	2. Break On Outta Your Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The news comes through on a Friday in late March.
> 
> Magnus almost doesn’t answer his phone from where it rings on the corner of his office desk. His article on spring florals through the ages had returned from Ragnor, the editor and founder of the magazine, and he needed to draft a strongly worded email explaining why those edits are garbage. In the end, he snatches up his phone merely because the ringing causes a headache to form in his temples. “Who dares disturb the best journalist at _Downworld Fashion?_ ” he snaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE shout-out to my lovey new beta, victoriel. She caught my errors, helped me brainstorm, and presented countless wonderful ideas for future chapters. Go follow her on tumblr! (https://victoriel.tumblr.com/)

[♫ Sunday Best ♫](https://youtu.be/_83KqwEEGw4)

The news comes through on a Friday in late March.

Magnus almost doesn’t answer his phone from where it rings on the corner of his office desk. His article on spring florals through the ages had returned from Ragnor, the editor and founder of the magazine, and he needed to draft a strongly worded email explaining why those edits are garbage. In the end, he snatches up his phone merely because the ringing causes a headache to form in his temples. “Who dares disturb the best journalist at _Downworld Fashion?_ ” he snaps.

A pause. Then a hesitant feminine voice asks, “Um, is this Magnus Bane?”

He huffs. A pithy comment sits on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back in favor of completing this call as quickly as possible. “Yes. And you are…?”

“My name is Heidi McKenzie. I’m with Project Runway. Everyone here was quite impressed with your submission. They want you to come in for the live auditions next week.”

Everything in him freezes. His eyes zone out, glazed over as he stares unseeingly at the mood board in front of his desk. _Is this real?_ “I-I made it through?” he gasps out.

“Yes, to the next round. Congratulations, Mr. Bane!” He stutters out a ‘thank you’. Heidi continues speaking, giving him details for the when, where, and how for his live audition. Magnus writes it all down in a haze. After Heidi offers a final congratulations and ends the call, Magnus keeps the phone pressed to his ear. Some part of him fears that this is a dream; once he puts it down, he will wake up. Slowly, he pulls the phone far enough away to look at the recent call list. An unknown New York number sits at the top of the list. Definitely not a dream, then.

He continues to stare at the mood board (just a white board with inspiration photos and colors taped to it) for several minutes after the call ends. His mind races, trying to wrap itself around this news. This isn’t the first time he has sent in his application. Early in his college days, before he moved in with Ragnor, he gathered together a ramshackle portfolio of his best designs. It wasn’t much. His current portfolio puts it to shame, both in quality and quantity. Obviously that first attempt ended poorly; he was summarily rejected. While a piece of his world flamed out with that first rejection, it also paved the way for his future as a journalist.

Without any conscious prompting on his part, he taps into Catarina’s contact info and taps the ‘call’ button. Only when the line begins to ring does he realize she may be asleep. He never bothers trying to keep track of her schedule. She switches days to night and back practically every week – or so it seems. Nurses keep such unpredictable hours, particularly when they work in the trauma/ER department. Nonetheless, he allows the call to continue ringing.

Catarina answers after the fourth ring, voice thick with sleep. “You better be dying.”

“Of excitement, my dearest Cat. I got in!”

“…into a thing or a person?”

He gasps in mock offense and presses a hand over his heart. Of course, she can’t see him, but the drama in the movement fits the insult. “Rude. You very well know I have sworn off dating. No, my dearest Cat, I made it into the Project Runway live auditions! They want me to come in and audition in-person next week!”

“Magnus, you know I’m excited for you. However, I’m coming off a double shift in the ER and am barely capable of coherent thought right now. Meet me for dinner tonight so I can be suitably ecstatic for you.”

He agrees to text her a time and place before he leaves work. After he hangs up, Magnus sits in silence. There are other people to notify (Ragnor and Raphael, neither of whom will express nearly as much excitement as Cat, tired as she may be) and plans to put in place. He is a planner by nature. He finds peace in knowing he has actions to follow through on. With a deep breath, he leans forward, opens a new Word document, and begins to type.

* * *

[♫ Liberated ♫](https://youtu.be/pxmwJmCgOpY)

Two hours later, Magnus knocks on the door of the chief editor of _Downworld Fashion_ magazine. “Come in,” calls the muffled voice. Magnus breathes out slowly before pushing open the door and stepping into the office.

“Ragnor!” he exclaims. “My dear cabbage. How are you?”

The older man squints up at him suspiciously. “You know I do not understand your odd pop culture references, Magnus.” Ragnor leans over his desk, shuffling through the various file folders scattered across his desk. As chief editor of _Downworld Fashion_ , an up-and-coming magazine, he spends most of his days holed up in his office, planning their next issue and sending out wordy memos. He delegates the reading of articles and photo quality control to his underling editors, but Magnus knows he enjoys having his hands in everything. “What do you need?”

Magnus folds himself gracefully into one of the pale blue slipper chairs across from the desk. He takes a moment to observe Ragnor. They have been friends for more years than Magnus bothers to remember. In that time, he trained himself to learn Ragnor’s tells. Part of it stemmed from self-preservation (he lived with the man for a short span of years during college and learned just how grumpy he could become at times), but part of it was out of true love and concern. Now, working beneath his friend, he finds that being able to read Ragnor’s tells give valuable insight into how to broach certain topics. Such as potentially needing a significant amount of time off.

He notes the various file folders, the mostly empty cup of coffee with the simple phrase “ugh” etched into the ceramic, and the conspicuously empty idea board drilled into the wall to their right. Their next issue comes out in three and a half weeks. By this point, at least two photo shoots and three separate articles should decorate that board. A sudden worry gnaws at his evaporating euphoria.

“Well, I intended to barge in with terrific news and convince you to celebrate with me. However, your empty idea board makes me think we should discuss the next issue instead.”

Ragnor rubs a hand over his eyes and sighs. “It’s a combination of a lack of good ideas and a lack of direction. The March issue covers the newest trends for spring. We are still two months away from putting out the summer issue. And all the ideas pitched to me are stale, outdated, and utterly uninspired. I firmly believe not one person in this office is capable of an original thought. I am surrounded by idiots, Magnus.” Ragnor glares up at him. “Please tell me you have an idea that isn’t utter garbage and can lend a direction to this next issue.”

Magnus twists the ‘B’ signet ring on the middle finger of his right hand. His initial plan didn’t involve any sort of obligation to _Downworld Fashion_. After all, he isn’t undertaking this adventure for the magazine. However, all three of his contingency plans involve including the magazine in some capacity. He hums in acknowledgement. “I…may have something,” he hedges, already rearranging plans in his head.

“By all means, spit it out!” Ragnor waves at him to continue, eyes refocused on the file folders.

Magnus uncrosses and re-crosses his legs nervously. He has no doubt his friend will be excited about the news (in his own dry way). However, from an editor’s standpoint, he isn’t sure that excitement will translate. He exhales evenly, counting to five. “I received a call this morning. In about a week, I will complete my live audition for Project Runway. If they like me, I may become a contestant on this summer’s season of Project Runway.”

Finally, Ragnor abandons the file folders. He leans back in his swivel chair, eyeing Magnus with a mixture of pride and confusion. “I’m proud of you, old friend. Goodness knows this has been part of your dream for ages. You truly deserve the opportunity to show everyone your talent and skill. Forgive me, though, but I do not see how this solves our problem.”

“It’s quite simple, actually. The focus becomes ‘aspiring designers’. You do a highlight of the top five up-and-coming designers. Pull some of their photo shoots. See if a couple of them would be willing to do an interview for this issue and catch the others in a future issue. As for how it connects to my news…” Magnus shifts in his seat, bracing for the crutch of his revamped plan. “If I make it through to become a contestant, I am willing to write multiple articles covering a few of my experiences. Obviously, there will be some things that need to remain secret due to copyrights of the show, but there should be enough insider info to draw in our readers. I’ll even write a full exposé after New York Fashion Week and the final few contestants and our experiences. Perhaps I can make a few friends and ask them to write a shorter op ed piece.”

The older man raises an eyebrow. “You’re expecting to go far.”

He smirks. “You’ve seen my designs.”

Ragnor nods sagely. “Yes, I have. I also know all the doubts and insecurities you hide behind that bravado of yours.” His tone shifts to something serious. “I have full faith in you, Magnus. You could take this opportunity far, if you don’t let _her_ get in your head and in your way. Do not allow her poison to kill your dream or your skill, Magnus.”

Magnus swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. Of all the things he expected from this conversation, a pep talk was not among them. He nods at Ragnor and offers a small smile. He decides against speaking for fear of that persistent lump of emotion still lodged in his throat.

Luckily Ragnor seems to understand. He nods once more. “Good. Now, as for your proposition…” He drums his fingers on the file folders, now neatly stacked and placed off to the side. Magnus practically quivers with contained anticipation. “I like it. I think it has potential. The series of articles you’ve promised should draw in readers for a few issues, especially if we hint at an exposé from the start. Of course, the lack of joint photos will be difficult, but perhaps we can advertise the New York Fashion Week or some of the top brands from previous seasons…” Ragnor trails off, already lost in planning.

Magnus smiles. His earlier concerns melt away at the clear confirmation that Ragnor will support him, as both his friend and his boss, through this endeavor. “Well, it’s highly doubtful I will have any time during the competition to write full pieces, let alone send them to you. From what I understand, there is a minor technology embargo during the contest. I will have my phone, but it will be handed over to the camera crew during the working hours. By the time the first piece is ready to print, there should be at least one episode of the season out. I’m sure you could draw on those for inspiration and teasers of things to come.”

Ragnor nods and pulls out a pad of paper. He begins to scribble notes, muttering things to himself. Every other minute or so he will glance up and bounce an idea off of Magnus. The smile grows on his face. At some point he will worry about making it through the auditions and whatever comes after. For now, he settles deeper into his chair to help work out the kinks in their plan and the direction of next month’s issue.

* * *

[♫ Strange Love ♫](https://youtu.be/jAGuAFzicm0)

Several hours later, Magnus lounges in a corner booth at the Hunter’s Moon. The small bar tends to be their normal meeting place. It has close proximity to both Catarina’s apartment and the magazine’s headquarters. After a long day of planning on top of typical day-to-day tasks and responsibilities, Magnus came straight to “their booth.” He relished the opportunity to sit innocuously in their corner booth and merely observe the hustle and bustle around him as the bar comes alive.

Now, two martinis in and a third half-empty in front of him, he glances at the clock on his cell phone. Catarina and Raphael should have arrived fifteen minutes ago. Ragnor had left the office with Magnus, stating he didn’t need the headache of listening to Magnus and Raphael argue about travel destinations again. He almost expects Catarina to be late. Many a night has been postponed due to unexpected emergencies calling her back to the ER. But Raphael? Raphael prides himself on his punctuality. To be this late is uncharacteristic of him. Magnus swipes open his phone and clicks into the group text thread with Cat, Raph, and Ragnor.

Before he can type out a message, a body slips into the booth across from him. Raphael calmly slips his drink (something dark and brown – bourbon, if his past tastes hold true), as if he isn’t extraordinarily late by his own standards. He raises an eyebrow at Magnus, who scoffs.

“Don’t raise your eyebrow at me. Both of you are late. I’m within my rights to text you angry cat memes until you arrive.” Magnus raises his voice slightly to be heard over the 80s alternative flowing through the bar. While not oppressively loud, it’s enough that gentle conversation is out of the question.

Raphael rolls his eyes. “The baby behind the bar didn’t know Scotch from bourbon. He poured me three different drinks before I grew tired of it and reached back there to grab the correct bottle myself. The fledgling’s incompetency astounds me.”

Magnus peeks toward the bar. He doesn’t recognize the new bartender, but by the anxious expression written clearly across his face, he takes his new position quite seriously.

“Oh, you probably intimidated the poor thing. You do give off ‘grumpy vampire’ vibes. He made me three excellent martinis with no problem.”

Another eye roll greets him when he returns his gaze to Raphael. Magnus smirks into his martini. As the manager and one-fifth stakeholder of Pandemonium, the top-ranked nightclub in lower Manhattan, Raphael works many evenings and nights. This leads his oddly pale complexion to become positively vampiric. A fact that Raphael knows, willfully abuses, and steadfastly refuses to acknowledge. Magnus suspects it has something to do with his Hispanic pride mingling with disappointment at having unusual coloring.

“Sorry I’m late!” Catarina suddenly drops into the seat beside Raphael. She remains in her scrubs, which has Raphael wrinkling his nose. She swats his arm when she notices. “Quit that. There was a ‘quick’--” she makes air quotes and rolls her eyes at that. “--nurses’ meeting that rapidly became an opportunity for the administration to bitch about the smallest things we’re doing wrong for the sake of efficiency.” She takes a swig of her beer. “I thought it was an actual emergency since they called me in on my day off. Hence the scrubs. Now, Magnus.” She locks eyes with him. “I believe you have news to share.”

He raises his glass in her direction. “Thank you, my dear. As you know, I applied to Project Runway East vs. West a few months ago. I sent in all my best designs, included references from a few past models and from the both of you, and then waited. Today I received a call back for their live audition. I go in next Wednesday at 2:30 to present my designs.” He smirks at them. “In a few months’ time, yours truly will appear on a television near you.”

Raphael glares at him. “ _Dios mio_ , you’re going to make us watch that _basura_ 1, aren’t you?”

Catarina smacks his arm. “Of course we’re going to watch it.” She turns back to Magnus. “We are so proud of you, Magnus. What does this audition look like?” 

“From what I understand, I will present a 3-outfit look as a sort of mini-collection to showcase my skills. There will be some kind of question and answer forum for them to discover more about who I am as a person and a designer, as well as to sort of...prime me for the show.”

“What designs are you showing them?” Raphael interjects.

Magnus taps one painted nail against the rim of his nearly empty glass. He has hundreds of designs scattered across his friends and valued acquaintances. The question of which ones to showcase is a difficult one. Especially when he takes into consideration that he only has three slots to fill. “The bigger question is what skills do I want to showcase? While this does not need to be a cohesive collection, per se, it is important that they maintain some sort of similarity in my design aesthetic.” He pauses to ponder who he is as a designer. What inspires him, motivates him, gives him energy and a drive to design?

“And what is your design aesthetic, Magnus?” Catarina takes another drink and eyes him. Asking this question forces him to acknowledge that he does indeed possess a clear aesthetic at this point in his career. Her question requires an answer from him, though, if the glint in her eye is any indication. She clearly possesses her own idea of what his design aesthetic is. Catarina has been there for him for the integral years of his growth as a designer. Before her, he dabbled in designing for himself and occasionally Ragnor, when the older man would venture beyond his dull cardigans. Catarina gave him a true creative outlet. The first outfit he designed for her was a stunning cocktail dress for a gala at the hospital she interned at during that time. She helped him focus his design aesthetic into something more concrete instead of whatever upcoming trend piqued his interest.

Magnus grins at her, eyes narrowed. “As if you don’t already know, my dear.” He twirls the “M” signet ring, situated on his right ring finger. He makes the purposeful decision to play his aesthetic close to his chest for now. He’s never spoken the words out loud before; doing so now, days before his shot at making his dreams come true, feels like a superstition that should not be broken. “Back to the outfits I want to present. I want to show them my diversity as a designer, so I will need pieces from each of you. Cat, how about the [cream-colored gown](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/81/ed/1e/81ed1e402b623915afe67d91abdaee0f.jpg) with the draped cape sleeves, high neckline, and the slit up the left leg? The one from that benefit in early January. It showcases the clean lines and simple but elegant side of my abilities.” At her nod, he turns to Raphael. “From you, O Pale One, how about the olive-green [three-piece suit](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/1e/b5/1e/1eb51ebc6207500f811a4e4a24898cd8.jpg) ? The one with the silver chain spanning from the left lapel to the breast pocket. Those four-hold buttons in silver and the sweep of the chain always stand out and demonstrate the attention to details as well as the boldness of my designs.” Raphael huffs but gives a single nod.

He quickly loses himself in analyzing his favorite designs and which ones to bring. He scribbles a few notes and reminders on the extra napkin from his drink. Around him, the bar continues to bustle with life and conversation. Raphael and Catarina engage in a heated debate about skin conditions and whether or not undiagnosed albinism falls within that category. Magnus almost smiles. Even lost in his own thoughts, he recognizes the calm happiness in the atmosphere. Or maybe he is projecting his own happiness onto everything. After all, life took a sudden turn toward “nearly perfect” after his call this morning. His dream, finally put into motion!

_Too bad you’ll ruin it._

For the second time today, Magnus freezes. His eyes sweep the bar, searching for the owner of that syrup-sweet voice laced with menace. He scans the faces frantically. Surely she hasn’t returned, hasn’t decided to disrupt the life he’s built for himself following her deception. Part of him hopes it’s just a figment of his imagination, that she hasn’t managed to discover this peaceful section of Brooklyn just yet. Yet another part of him knows she isn’t here. The reality of her voice stuck in his subconscious breeds far worse fears for him.

He thought he overcame the poison she planted in his brain. He spent a handful of years and too much money on therapy (at the urging of Ragnor and Catarina) to erase her voice from his subconscious. And she’s been silent. Blissfully silent. He took control of his own desires, his own destiny, his own _designs_ , for close to five years now. How could she be coming back? _Why_ would she be coming back now? Now, of all times, when things are just starting to look up, when his dreams are finally moving in the right direction –

“—gnus!”

A hand grasps his in a bruising grip. He flinches, ripping his hand away from the contact and nearly toppling his glass onto the floor. Blinking up at Catarina and Raphael, he nearly flinches again at the concern in their faces. He forces in a deep breath before attempting to speak. “What did I miss?”

“We should be asking you that question. You went pale and unnaturally silent, cut off your brainstorming mumbles. Are you okay?” Catarina places a hand near his on the table. Close but not quite touching, as though she fears his reaction. He can’t blame her.

“I’m perfectly fine. Just lost in thought.” Magnus tries to wave them off. However, he knows he failed when he can’t quite meet their eyes. Her words, cold and vicious, eat at his mind. Feeling their eyes on him, he recalls the parting words from his therapist at their last meeting: ‘Lean on your friends, Magnus. Cultivate your own support system. Talking about your feelings can help you process.’ With a sigh, he squares his shoulders. “I may have some…buried insecurities…that are rearing their heads.”

“Oh, Magnus.” Cat’s concern melts into something soft and sad. “She’s back in your head, isn’t she? You know you are more than whatever she told you. Look at all the incredible things you’ve done in your career. You, Magnus, not her. You separated yourself from her and built your reputation from the ground up. You refused to allow anyone to cut you down and burn your dream. Don’t allow her to sneak back in and do that now, of all times.” She finally places her hand on top of his. The hesitance in her touch causes guilt to flare in his chest. He stares at their hands: one dark-skinned and small, the other lighter, more olive in color, and somewhat larger. He flips his hand to give hers a squeeze. She smiles gently at him when he looks up at her again. “Every decision you make, makes you. Never let other people choose who you are going to be.”

Magnus can’t help the small smile tilting up his lips. “Leave it to you to give me a pep talk for good news, my dear,” he chuckles. His attempt to lighten the mood works when she laughs and squeezes his hand in return.

Beside them, Raphael huffs. “If we’re through with the ‘feelings’ portion of the night now, I need another bourbon. Mine seemed to have disappeared somewhere during that…pep talk.” He spits the words as if they are poisonous.

Magnus laughs, loud and bright. The remainder of the coldness brought on by her voice fades away in the warmth of their repartee. “You chug fine liquor instead of discussing feelings. I fail to feel surprised by this discovery.” He slaps his hands against the tabletop before sliding out of the booth. “I’m buying the next round.” Cheers follow him as he heads to the bar.

He smiles as he leans against the bar top. Insecurities aside, he knows this is his chance to make it big. He plans to seize it and take it all the way. Carpe diem and all that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Dios mio_ means “oh my God”  
>  _Basura_ means “garbage”. Back
> 
> Outfits used in this chapter:
> 
> [](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/81/ed/1e/81ed1e402b623915afe67d91abdaee0f.jpg) [](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/1e/b5/1e/1eb51ebc6207500f811a4e4a24898cd8.jpg)


	3. Throw Me in a Crowded Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He watches as designer after designer disappears into the audition room, tugging their garment rack behind them. Of course, he showed up nearly four hours before his time slot. This provided him with plenty of time to perfect each garment before stowing it safely away from judging eyes.
> 
> Or: Alec's audition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy October! Have a new chapter!  
> School (both teaching it and taking it) has been murderous on my writing schedule. My goal is to update at least once a month. I have the next 2-ish chapters already written, so hopefully editing will go quicker. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: very minor, very non-graphic panic attack. If those types of things affect you, be cautious. Tags are updated.
> 
> As always, huge thank you to my wonderful beta victoriel! Editing would not have been possible without you.

[♫ Strange Love ♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jAGuAFzicm0)

Everywhere he looks, chaos reigns. Chaos in the form of ruffles, lace, and bows, with colors in every hue and shade imaginable.

Alec stands in a corner of the large atrium in one of the exhibition halls in Lower Manhattan. All around him, people fuss over their designs hanging from rolling garment racks. Some run steamers over their clothes, easing the wrinkles brought on by travel. Hand sewing kits make an appearance to fix small issues or add that “something extra” to help the outfit stand out. Alec shakes his head and turns back to the out-of-the-way corner he commandeered hours ago. On his own rack hang three black garment bags, each one containing an outfit to showcase his design skills and talents. Each one caused him a mini crisis as he attempted to figure out who he is and what he wants to show.

He fiddles with one of the zippers. He arrived earlier than most of the other designers and used that relatively quiet time to methodically go through his outfits. Now they rest in their bags, steamed and polished. All that remains for him is the wait. Which, as he learned an hour ago, is the hardest part thus far. Most designers brought people with them; the other hopeful would-be contestants have someone to help distract them from the crushing fear and anxiety of their audition. They cluster around the racks, laughing and chatting and helping pass the time while also offering quiet support.

Alec grips his phone tightly. Izzy had offered to come with him, for moral support she claimed. However, the magazine she works for has a new issue coming out in just a few days. Her job as social media coordinator (or “official hype man” – Simon’s words, not his) means she needs to release sneak peeks and build interest before its release. Knowing this, he insisted she go to work. The days building up to a new issue tend to cause more stress for her than normal. She relented with his promise of sending update texts every half hour. He stuck to that schedule, knowing she will come hunt him down if he misses an update.

All that to say Alec came alone.

He watches as designer after designer disappears into the audition room, tugging their garment rack behind them. Of course, he showed up nearly four hours before his time slot. This provided him with plenty of time to perfect each garment before stowing it safely away from judging eyes. It also provided him with too much downtime to overthink and worry. Panic brewed inside him from the moment he heard the first designer called back for their audition. Now, with less than five minutes before he’s due to go in for his own audition, he feels the panic reach a crescendo, slithering angrily through his veins. Those insecurities last squashed in his talk with Jace whisper their ugly words in the back of his brain. He glances from designer to designer, taking note of the pristine structure and quality construction of their pieces. A shudder runs through him when his eyes land on the plain black of his own garment bags. This, coming to the audition, thinking he could do this, was a mistake. He isn’t a designer; he just masquerades as one to help Isabelle with her unique tastes. Who does he think he is? All these people probably went to design school and hold some kind of official job as a designer and then there’s Alec, who barely knows the difference between –

“Alec Lightwood.”

The sound of his name jolts him out of his mounting panic attack. An attendant with a clipboard waits in front of the audition room, looking around expectantly.

His breath wheezes out of him. It would be easy to remain sitting and ignore his name being called a few more times. He could go home, lie to Izzy that he thinks it went well, and fake disappointment when a call back never comes. Life would continue in the little routine he’s built, allowing him to maintain the little niche he has carefully carved for himself.

_“But what about your dream?”_ a small voice whispers in the back of his head. A pang of…regret? sadness?...ripples through him. If he allows this chance to pass him by, he knows he won’t receive another. His dream will continue to wither and waste away until nothing remains. Already it occupies a fraction of the space it used to. That thought creates an ache in his chest, one he can’t name.

He stands up.

The attendant notices. She raises an eyebrow at him in silent question. Alec nods and moves to stand in front of her. “Alec Lightwood,” he confirms.

“The judges are ready for you. You will present your clothes, explain your designs, and answer any questions the judges have for you. Any questions?” At the quick shake of his head, she pushes open the audition room and beckons him inside. “Good luck.”

Channeling a confidence he doesn’t feel, Alec steps into the room, hauling his garment rack behind him.

* * *

[♫ Rockwell Fish ♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KYCbclQanqg)

The audition room is significantly larger than he realized. It reminds him of a small theater in terms of space. The white walls have deep red fabric elegantly draped between ceiling-high windows. A matching red rug spans the space from the door at his back to the judges’ table at the other end of the room. The natural lighting of the room, clearly meant to invoke an inviting atmosphere and help reduce stress, sets Alec’s nerves on edge. It reinforces where he is and what is at stake. The urge to turn and run sits heavy beneath his skin. Grinding his teeth, he forces himself to move forward.

He comes to a halt about ten feet from the judges’ table. He recognizes Tim Gunn and Heidi Klum from the few episodes he watched with Isabelle and Clary. Thankfully each person has a name card in front of them, as he doesn’t recognize the other two people at the table.

“Hello, Alec,” Tim greets him. Heidi parrots him, a hint of her accent coming through immediately.

Alec lifts one hand in an awkward little half-wave. “Um, hi.”

Tim smiles reassuringly. “So this should proceed relatively smoothly. Why don’t you show us all of your designs? We will take a few notes and ask you some questions once you’re finished.”

Alec nods. “S-sounds good.” He mentally curses at himself for his nervous stutter. It only comes out in times of overwhelming stress or fear, so of course it appears _now_. He clears his throat and begins unzipping the first garment bag.

“The, um, the first piece is a, a [long overcoat with a matching miniskirt](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/18/70/90/1870902fae654106f55f581624a64c1b.jpg) and a structured black top. The, uh, the overcoat and the skirt are both a heavyweight cotton-wool blend to help with winter weather. However, the draping—” He finally manages to extract the outfit from the bag. He pointedly ignores the faint trembling of his hands as he hangs the garment on the end of the rack to better display it. “The draping isn’t lost. I know this particular blend can cause concern, but with the, um, the right…touch? It can find its full potential.” He quickly highlights the features of the overcoat – an attached belt, supported pockets – before pulling it open to reveal the matching skirt and top.

“Um, the matching skirt was…a risk. I knew the fabric wouldn’t match anything but still needed a pattern for the skirt if, if the overcoat ever came off. So I took the same fabric and just…” he drops the overcoat to wave his hand aimlessly. Heidi cocks her head and he inwardly flinches. Pulling the overcoat open again, he continues. “Sort of, played with it? Until I found a configuration that looked good?” He gestures to the skirt. “Having the lines horizontal helped set it apart from the vertical lines of the overcoat. As for the top, well, black matched.” Alec moves the overcoat a bit more out of the way. “It needed to be simple enough to match the skirt and coat, but fashionable to wear with anything else my sister has.” He drops the hem of the overcoat in favor of rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. “M-most of the clothes I design are for my sister. She has a unique s-sense of style.”

The judges nod but remain silent save for the scratching of their pens. Alec tries to focus on returning the outfit to its bag. _“They could be good comments”_ , he argues with himself. The silent scratching on paper recalls unpleasant memories of his parents critiquing him on whatever activity he dared present to them. Hands still shaking slightly, he pulls the next outfit from its bag.

“T-the next outfit is, um, a pa-pastel [ombre pantsuit](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/d8/91/00/d89100a6f07cac1a6ebc067a4d80ba9c.jpg).” Alec pauses in an attempt to calm his erratic heartbeat and reign in his stuttering. Tim Gunn smiles reassuringly at him. With a deep bracing breath, Alec pushes on. “I chose silk charmeuse for a more sophisticated look and for its draping.” He turns the pantsuit to the side and gently tugs at the pleats on the sleeve. “I chose to, um, pleat both the sleeves and the side of the leg with actual silk instead of the charmeuse. Silk adds to the shine and helps, um, offset the pleating so it stands out. The pleating starts at the, uh, at the shoulder and also at the hip.” He gently shakes the suit side to side to showcase the pleats in motion. “I wanted the pleats to flow as she moved, providing an eye-catching visual. And the ombre from color to color draws you into the pleats.”

This time, the gentle scratch of pen on paper grates on his ears but doesn’t leave him as on-edge. He grits his teeth and bears it. The moment he took to breathe helped more than he anticipated, but still didn’t set him back at ease. With only one outfit left, the end is in sight. Alec breathes out a measured breath as he turns to face the judges again.

“The final outfit I have for you represents an, an evening wear gown. While a bit unconventional, I believe it accurately reflects me as a, um, a d-designer.” He stumbles over the word. Isabelle had reinforced the need for him to label himself as such for this interview. However, he knows. He knows he isn’t a designer. Despite his acceptance of his skill and his decision to go on this journey, he refuses to label himself something he isn’t.

“The fabric is a variation on the traditional satin. This particular weave features a, uh, a duller sheen on both sides of the fabric. I chose it for this dress because of the nature of the occasion. On a runway, surrounded by bright lights and the flash of paparazzi cameras, traditional satin loses its, um, its glamor and its effectiveness. I didn’t want the draping and subtle texture to disappear, so I chose this unique weave.” Alec spins [the dress](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a1/52/cc/a152ccfa4110646272822573c9398ba7.jpg) to show the side and the back. “The high leg slit and strappy back, though risky, matched the event and my sister’s personality beautifully. She attended a gala focused on empowering women. Of course, she took that as an opportunity to demonstrate how women can…use their bodies in a non-sexual manner to, um, regain some of their power.”

Realizing he’s rambling, Alec snaps his mouth shut. Heidi Klum’s brilliant smile reassures him that his detour provided some amusement, at least. With a crooked smile, Alec begins to return the dress to its bag. “That’s, um, that’s all I have for you.”

The judges shuffle their papers and shift quietly in their seats. Tim Gunn clears his throat. “Alright, Alec. What got you into fashion?”

Alec pauses, looks away. He remembers his youth again and the secret sewing machine. “It…felt right,” he murmurs. Raising his eyes to the judges, he clears his throat. “My parents wanted me to become a doctor. Still do, despite my seven years on the police force. But…none of that ever really…felt right, I guess? I learned to sew because my parents refused to buy my sister new jeans after she ripped hers playing football during elementary school recess. I taught myself to hand-sew in order to patch her clothes. From there, I just sort of…fell into designing.” He shrugs noncommittally.

Heidi blinks at him and cocks her head. “Why wouldn’t your parents buy her new jeans?”

“My parents have always held…um, specific… _expectations_ for us. I was meant to be a top athlete in high school and college and then become a doctor. Isabelle was meant to act like a lady and marry a politician or a doctor after completing some nonsense degree. Ripping her jeans while playing football with boys went against that lady-like expectation. I guess they thought forcing her to face the consequences would, uh, set her straight, I guess.”

Heidi blinks again and purses her lips but remains quiet. One of the unknown judges smiles and raises her hand in a small wave. “Hi, Alec. I’m Tessa Gray, one of the executive producers for Project Runway. I’m sure Heidi and Timm will have a few more questions about your clothes and the design aspect, but I want to shift the conversation for a minute to some of the questions surrounding you appearing on the show. “Are you prepared and able to leave your job for three months?” At Alec’s nod, she continues. “Are you prepared to sign legally binding documents about your experiences and involvement with Project Runway?” Startled at the weight of the question, Alec nods slowly. Tessa nods, calm smile never leaving her face. “Good. How do you feel about roommates?”

Alec shrugs. “I currently live with my little sister and adopted brother, both of whom regularly invite their significant others to stay the night. I’m used to sharing space.”

“Excellent. Last one, then. Do you have any dietary restrictions?” At his negative answers, she turns to face Heidi and Tim. “That’s all I have. He’s all yours.”

Another ten minutes of questions ensues. Alec fields questions about his design process; where he draws his inspiration from; his experience working with others and how he feels about it; and his time management skills and how he works under pressure. They take a closer look at his garments and his process of creating them. When he finally drags his garment rack out the door at the end of his time slot, he feels scraped out. Alec shuffles over to the corner he haunted prior to his interview. Once there, he pulls out his phone and sends a quick text to Izzy and Jace that he’s done.

A heavy sigh escapes him. He leans against the wall and slides down into a heap of limbs on the floor. Around him, the chaos continues. Alec blinks a few times, trying to clear the heavy weariness from his brain. The last fifteen minutes feel like the longest of his life, though objectively that is not even relatively true. Most of his design conversations occur in short bursts with Izzy: what outfit does she need for whatever occasion? What color would she prefer or is required? What is everyone else wearing that he should avoid? He never spent more than five minutes talking about clothes or how he designs them. Turns out, it is _exhausting_.

Heaving another sigh, he pushes himself to his feet. A couple taps on his phone calls up an Uber for him to take home. Normally he would take a taxi or the subway, but Isabelle insisted he take care of her clothes. The threat of a mauled sewing machine convinced him to take a private Uber. It’s the work of a moment to ensure all his prep materials are stored in his backpack. Garments in hand, he steps out onto the bustling New York sidewalk.

* * *

Nine days later, he receives the call.

He made the cut.

Alec Lightwood is officially a contestant on Project Runway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Outfits used in this chapter:
> 
> [](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/18/70/90/1870902fae654106f55f581624a64c1b.jpg) [](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/d8/91/00/d89100a6f07cac1a6ebc067a4d80ba9c.jpg) [](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a1/52/cc/a152ccfa4110646272822573c9398ba7.jpg)


	4. Challenge #1: Who are you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus has watched every season of Project Runway. He knows the types of challenges, the venues, the judges, everything. Yet none of that prepared him for walking into the workroom at Parsons for the first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy November! Have a new chapter!  
> Sorry for the delay - both myself and my wonderful beta have been busy. That being said, this chapter hasn't been beta'd. We'll get back into our normal swing of things soon. (crossing fingers)

[♫ Hey Look Ma, I Made It ♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BzbxacRr5Gk)

Magnus groans at the sheer amount of white and gray fur adorning his suitcase. “Shoo, you nefarious beast!” Chairman Meow blinks and burrows a little deeper into the overflowing suitcase. Magnus scowls and scoops him up. “You little devil! Look at all the fur you left behind! I know you’re going to miss me but this is going too far.” He deposits the tiny cat on the pillows at the top of the bed. Chairman flicks his tail in displeasure before hopping to the floor and sauntering out of the room. Magnus huffs and returns to glaring at his suitcase.

Today is the day. May 1st. After months of waiting for any news on his application and a nerve-wracking but near-flawless audition, he is officially a contestant on Project Runway (and he absolutely did not cry a little bit when he received that call)! And today he leaves to meet the other contestants, as well as Heidi and Tim again, for their first challenge!

…Or he would if he ever finishes packing. He has known about this for two weeks now; there is no excuse for his pitifully empty suitcase surrounded by the mismatched clothes, piles of shoes, and rejected jewelry strewn about his bed. Magnus groans in despair as he texts Catarina.

>>> Sent 8:07 am: Catarina

Cat! SOS! Leaving today and nothing to wear!

He barely has time to click off his phone screen when a reply comes in.

>>> Received 8:07 am: Catarina

You knew about this weeks ago. No pity here.

Facetime me and I’ll help you.

Magnus grins as he taps the ‘call’ button. Despite her grumbles, Catarina always comes through for him. He quickly tucks away the grin as the call connects. Instead he groans. “I have nothing to wear!”

“You better find something. This isn’t a nudity challenge nor are you a model.” Catarina frowns at him. “Magnus, you are a fashion designer. You have plenty to wear.”

He looks away from the phone screen to glare at his open closet door. The walk-in closet (one of the necessary features when he was apartment-hunting) mocks him with its colorful contents strewn about haphazardly. “While my closet is not lacking in content, choosing the outfits to pack has become an impossible task.”

Cat’s eyes widen. “You haven’t packed anything yet?! Magnus, you need to leave in –” her eyes flick to the top of her phone, checking the clock. “In an hour!”

His pulse rockets up. “Shit.”

“Okay. You go pack your toiletries, jewelry, and your favorite shoes. I’ll be there in fifteen to take care of your clothes.” Before he can reply, she hangs up. On any other day, Magnus would question Cat’s ability to dress him. Today, however, he sees no other option than to trust her judgement.

The next hour dissolves in a flurry of activity. Magnus flits around his bathroom, throwing assorted skincare items, hair products, and other necessities into a small bag. At some point, Catarina lets herself in because when he returns to the bedroom for his makeup, she is meticulously folding shirts to place with their respective pants in his suitcase. Magnus eyes her choices. While he designs wearing anything from his only pair of sweatpants to his clubbing clothes (it was one time when inspiration struck just before he left but Raphael never let it go), this opportunity requires a level of comfortable sophistication that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. However, Cat nailed it. She raises one eyebrow when she catches his appraising look. He smiles and pulls her into a hug.

“Thank you,” he breathes into her hair. Cat chuckles and pats his shoulder.

“You have five minutes before you need to walk out the door. Do you have everything?” She places the last outfit into the suitcase, nudging one of his boots out of the way to do so.

Magnus places his makeup bag and jewelry case beside the toiletry bag in his suitcase. His sewing toolkit sits beside the suitcase, already packed and ready to go. Without warning, anxiety and a weird nervous excitement tightens his chest. He tries to turn away before Cat catches them. Of course, she knows him too well and catches his wrist before he can fully step away.

“Magnus Bane, wipe that look off your face.” Catarina takes him by the shoulders. “You have waited for this opportunity for years. You do not get to back out now or question why you. No. You are going to take a deep breath, reset your mind, and walk out of here with your head held high. You are Magnus Bane.” She squeezes his shoulders and grins at him. “Now go make us proud.”

If his resulting laugh comes out a little wet, Cat doesn’t comment on it. Magnus closes his eyes and breathes out slowly. When he opens them again, the nerves disappear. He smiles at his friend.

“Showtime, my dearest Cat.”

* * *

[♫ Savage Remix ♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zoPH_Tgbl00)

People hustle down the sidewalks of Manhattan. As the center for tourist activity, the streets never lack in bodies. Magnus expertly weaves through the flow of people. His suitcase drags close behind him. The earbuds in his ears blasts “Savage Remix” featuring his girl Beyoncé. The insistent beat drives away the nerves still lingering beneath his skin. At red stoplights, he allows the music to overtake him. Eyes closed, he shimmies and shakes, moving his body to the beat. Dancing allows him another escape from the pressure waiting for him at the end of this walk. He opens his eyes just in time to see the crowd of people crossing the street.

Magnus half-walks, half-dances across the street. A quick glance at his phone causes him to quicken his pace, dropping the dancing. All designers need to arrive at Washington Square Park at nine thirty am sharp. In the email with packing instructions and the when and where of their first meeting, Magnus also received specific directions about where he needed to enter the park and at what time. He could only assume he would run into at least one other designer, as there aren’t that many entrances into the park to get to the arch (their designated meeting spot today).

Sure enough, as he crosses the street toward his assigned entrance, he sees two other people with suitcases approaching the same entrance. To his surprise, he recognizes the female. A quick tap to his earbuds shuts them off as he hurriedly pulls them out. “Dot!” he exclaims, raising his free hand to wave. She catches sight of him a moment later.

“Magnus!” She wraps her free arm around his waist while he throws his arm over her shoulders. “I didn’t know you were competing!”

He grins down at her. Dorothea Rollins had written a guest article for Downworld Fashion a few years ago about some of the necessary changes happening with Parsons’ School of Design. She had been a senior about to graduate and already making a name for herself. “I could say the same about you, darling!” He releases her to extend his hand to the other designer hovering nearby, watching their exchange. “Magnus Bane.”

The other man shakes the offered hand. “Jordan Kyle.”

Magnus smiles. “Where are you from, Jordan?”

“California. Huntington Beach, to be exact.”

“Ah, the West Coast. I’m from here in Brooklyn, but I’ve been in California a few times. Great place to mix business and pleasure.”

They continue to chat as they enter the park. Dot explains that she moved to D.C. in an effort to bring fashion to the capital. As they near the arch in the park, Magnus notices more people with suitcases. His little group comes to a stop at the base of the arch, joining the other little groups of contestants. Immediately Magnus begins to appraise the competition. He scans each little cluster, a vague smile on his face. A few faces stand out from collaborative work between his magazine and Parsons. Talent is present, without a doubt. His breath catches for a moment when his eyes land on a black-haired, blue-eyed man. The man stands a bit to the side, as if avoiding the center of attention. His eyes flicker around the group, clearly sizing up the competition just like everyone else. The neck tattoo peeking out from the collar of his shirt makes Magnus’s heart beat a tad faster. If they were anywhere else, in any other situation, he would make a shameless pass at the man. He files away Tall, Dark, and Handsome for later. Next to him stands – Magnus refrains from snarling. Barely.

“Magnus!” Lorenzo smirks at him. “Fancy seeing you here. Grew tired of your posh day job and decided to slum it with the rest of us full-time designers?”

“Darling, you wouldn’t last a day in the slums,” Magnus drawls. A muscle tics in Lorenzo’s jaw. Just as he opens his mouth to reply, the camera crew around them (and when did they show up anyway?) snaps to attention. A younger woman with dark brown curls separates herself from the group of cameras and begins directing everyone into position. All sixteen contestants end up standing in front of the opening of the arch, facing the fountain. Once they settle into position, the director of the group taps out a message on her phone. She taps one of the cameramen on the arm. He swivels his camera toward the fountain. Moments later, Heidi Klum and Tim Gunn stroll around the fountain, arm in arm.

By the time the duo stops in front of them, Magnus’s heart has beat a tattoo into his chest.

“Hello, designers!” Heidi chirps. She grins at them. “Welcome to New York City and to our special East versus West season of Project Runway!”

“Welcome, everyone!” Tim Gunn flashes his patent smile at them. “We are absolutely thrilled to have you all with us for this special season.”

Heidi picks up the next thread. “As you know, this is our East versus West season. Half of you hail from the east coast while the other half join us from the West coast. But don’t worry –” she waves one hand at them as though clearing the air. “This isn’t a team competition!”

“Instead,” Tim cuts in, “the East versus West will function as a club, of sorts. While you will each design independently, each win from a designer will accrue points. At various points, teams will be given the opportunity to cash in their points for things such as extra design tie, more time at Mood, and so on. So, take your not-team seriously!”

Magnus glances at his fellow designers. Everyone looks at each other, again sizing them up and speculating who comes from which coast. Magnus breathes a sigh of relief at remembering Lorenzo comes from southern California, where he is assistant editor to another start-up magazine rivaling Downworld Fashion. Even though the divisions are not official teams, he despises the idea of trying to agree on anything with that pompous prick.

“Despite your various backgrounds, you all made it here, to New York City, to be on Project Runway,” Heidi says. “Each one of you has the opportunity to become the next winner. However, we have a long road to get there.” Tim nods in agreement. “Now, as you may have noticed, there are swatches of fabric scattered throughout Washington Square Park.” Heidi gestures vaguely around the park. Magnus belatedly notes that the park is conspicuously lacking in tourists and the general populace of NYC. In their place are huge swatches of fabric. Some hang from tree limbs; a few sit neatly folded on the rim of the fountain; several others lay across benches or spread out like picnic blankets throughout the park. Magnus scans the various colors and patterns. As a versatile designer, he works with all manner of fabrics in any color or pattern that strikes his fancy (and some that don’t). Designing for Raph and Cat allowed him the opportunity to play with fabrics outside of his comfort zone. Their tastes in fashion rarely fall in line with his own. So he does not fear the more outrageous prints of the unconventional fabric.

Tim begins speaking again. “Mood graciously donated the fabric, which will be the fabric you use for your challenge.” He pauses, obviously giving them a moment to size up the fabrics. “Choose your fabric very thoughtfully! You will only have five minutes to collect your pieces, and you are only allowed four pieces each.” He carefully enunciates the last three words. Magnus finds himself nodding in understanding.

“Your challenge is to show us who you are as designers.” Heidi runs her eyes over them as she speaks. “You may design whatever you want, but it must represent you.”

“And you will only have one day for this challenge,” Tim tacks on.

“I wish you all good luck.” Heidi grins at them in anticipation. Immediately Magnus lowers himself slightly into the starting position of a track athlete. He never played organized sports, but he knows his way around a gym and how to move into a ready position. Around him, the other contestants shuffle into various forms of preparedness.

“On your mark.” Heidi’s voice causes him to crouch a little lower and dig in his front foot.

“Get set.” Magnus glances up to see Tim’s indulgent smile.

“GO!”

Sixteen bodies leap into motion. Magnus bolts forward, eyes intent on a trio of fabrics just a few meters past the fountain. They are a stunning combination of burgundy, gold, and navy. As he sprints around the fountain, he already begins to see the stunning cocktail dress come together in his mind. A grin splits his face as he reaches for the navy fabric.

Only to have it snatched away from his reaching fingers.

Magnus spins to see Tall Dark and Handsome racing away, navy fabric fluttering behind him. He narrows his eyes. Gorgeous, but foiling his plans. He flips around in time to see Lorenzo grab the gold fabric and sprint away. Magnus whips the burgundy off the bush and grits his teeth. Original plan: scrapped. He takes off in the direction of the Flatiron building, spying some neglected fabric hanging on a few trees below the tall building’s silhouette.

When Heidi calls time a few minutes later, Magnus trudges back toward the arch, four swatches of fabric bundled in his arms. A niggling fear eats at a corner of his mind. These fabrics and colors are not his first choice, nor his second. While he did snag the burgundy cotton fabric, he also ended up with a plan white rayon, a bolt of royal blue, and a funky thread tower print. He does appreciate the funky print and the potential it brings, but he can’t even begin to visualize a design right now.

He falls in line with the other designers. Everyone clutches their fabric to their chest as though worried it might be ripped away again. He notes that Tall Dark and Handsome ended up with white and gray to pair with his navy. A pop of light pink pokes out on top. Magnus finds himself intrigued despite his irritation at the stolen fabric. Beside him, Lorenzo flaunts the stolen gold fabric. Magnus pointedly ignores the smirk sent his way. All sixteen of them settle into a huddle of bodies while the camera crew rearrange themselves after the mad dash of chasing designers around the park.

“Alright designers!” Tim claps his hands together after being given the thumbs up from the camera director. “You have your fabric. We are going to head to Parson’s and get you going! Say goodbye to Heidi.”

Heidi waves and leaves with a short “see you on the runway.” Once she disappears from the park, the cameras click off. The crews begin to pack up, trading demands and questions as they dissemble their gear. Before the designers can separate, Time steps a bit closer. “Okay everyone. As you may have noticed, your suitcases have been gathered beneath the arch. One of our teams will transport everything to Atlas, our apartment complex this season. Before they do so, we need you to gather your toolbox or supply kit. So go ahead and take a minute to do that.”

As one unit, they move to their suitcases. Magnus stuffs his fabric under one arm and works at the straps securing his toolkit to the front of his suitcase. Ragnor bought him a specially-designed suitcase a few years back that allows for a smaller box to clip in and strap onto the larger suitcase. That box quickly became his ‘sewing on-the-go’ kit. It contains scissors, measuring tapes, thread in eight different colors, needles of various types and sizes, masking tape, and a whole host of other items that he may need while away from home. As he struggles to unclip one of the buckles on the case, he listens to Dot and Jordan discuss their fabric. He shudders when Dot mentions the silk blend she picked up. Silk usually revolts when he attempts to use it. His wayward thoughts cause his fingers to slip – again – and fumble with the buckle – also again. He swears under his breath.

“Need some help?”

Magnus glances up to see Tall Dark and Handsome (yeah, he really needs to get a name) standing over him. Magnus blinks. “Pardon?”

Tall Dark and Handsome gestures to the toolkit. “With…the buckle? You just looked like you were struggling so I thought I’d offer. To help, that is.”

Magnus blinks at him again before regaining his flagging composure. “Well, this is the least you can do since you stole my fabric.” He stands up to make room by the buckle.

Tall Dark and Handsome’s face turns a lovely shade of cherry as he sputters. “Steal your – I didn’t – I-It wasn’t in your hand yet! I just – got there first.”

Magnus laughs at the indignation in his voice. “Relax, my dear, I’m simply teasing. Though your help is appreciated. But first –” he sticks out the hand not clutching his fabric swatches. “Magnus.”

The other man tentatively takes his hand. “Alexander. I mean, Alec. I go by Alec.”

Magnus winks at him. “Well, Alexander, I’m glad I have a name now. I couldn’t keep calling you Tall Dark and Handsome in my head, no matter how true that may be.” The fading blush returns full force to Alec’s face. Magnus smirks at him as Alec sets his toolbox down to crouch beside the suitcase. His long fingers easily unclip the buckle. He catches the toolkit before it falls and spills everywhere. Magnus accepts it when handed to him.

“Why thank you, Alexander. I do believe this almost makes up for your fabric theft.” Before Alec can resume his stuttering, Magnus pats his shoulder and makes his way back to where Tim waits. He finds Alec absolutely stunning and needs to separate himself before he loses himself in making the other man blush all day.

All the designers convene in front of Tim moments later. Each one of them now carries a toolbox of some sort alongside their fabric. Tim smiles at them. With a few short words, he leads them through the park toward one of the streets. A small fleet of private taxi vans waits form them. The sixteen of them shuffle around awkwardly until each van holds four designers each. Magnus ends up with Alec, a shorter woman with light brunette hair named Lydia, and a quiet man simply called Meliorn. Alec and Lydia share the middle section while Magnus crams himself into the back with Meliorn.

Lydia attempts to strike up a conversation as the van merges into the morning traffic. “Obviously this is an East versus West season. Even though they claim we aren’t in teams, we need to look out for each other. I represent the East, as I live in Maine. What about you Alec?”

Alec shifts uncomfortably. Magnus wonders briefly how much Alec plans on sharing with them through this competition. “I live in Brooklyn, so I’m also in the East.”

Magnus raises an eyebrow in interest. So Tall Dark and Handsome (and okay, apparently that nickname is sticking around) lives in his area. He tucks that piece of information away with everything else he’s learning about Alec. He clears his throat when Lydia turns expectant eyes on him. “I too live in Brooklyn.” Alec startles but quickly tries to hide it with a cough. Magnus smirks but decides not to comment.

Beside him, Meliorn smiles faintly. “Outmatched but not outsmarted. I hail from the outskirts of Portland, Oregon.”

The car falls silent again. Meliorn marks the second person from the West that Magnus has met so far, not counting Lorenzo. The three of them remain the only designers to confirm that this is indeed a two-sided competition. Theoretically, each “team” should have eight designers to keep the non-teams even and fair. Magnus decides to ponder that later, as they pull up in front of Parsons.

* * *

[♫ Party In the USA ♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M11SvDtPBhA)

Magnus has watched every season of Project Runway. He knows the types of challenges, the venues, the judges, everything. Yet none of that prepared him for walking into the workroom at Parsons for the first time. Eight long tables stand on either side of the room, four per side. A mannequin stands at each end to create sixteen workspaces in total. The light purple walls appear brighter in person than on the show. Camera crews catch their entrance to the workroom, meaning they catch the awed gasps and excited whispers. Magnus thanks his lucky stars that he ended up in the middle of the group; the cameras won’t catch the tears glistening in his eyes this way.

By the time he finds his workstation, he’s managed to wrangle his emotions back under control. Seeing ‘Magnus Bane’ printed out and pinned to a mannequin threatens to undo him all over again. He sucks in a deep breath and releases it to a count of five. Only then does he glance up to see his station buddy.

An older woman gently unpacks her materials onto her space. The nametag on her mannequin reads ‘Jocelyn Fray’. She notices his staring and extends a hand, smiling. “Hi, I’m Jocelyn. It seems we’ll be sharing a space.”

Magnus returns her smile and shakes her hand. “Magnus. I’m looking forward to it.”

They lapse into silence. Each of them continues to lay out their fabrics and toolkits. Quiet conversations begin and quickly stutter out as everyone attempts to quell the anxiety flooding the room. No one seems to know quite what to do.

Thankfully, Tim does not let them stew for long.

“Hello designers!” he exclaims as he enters the workroom. He waits as they murmur greetings back at him. “You have your fabric and your challenge. You have one day for this challenge. This season we have the JustFab accessory wall. Use it very thoughtfully! I will be in later today to check on you and make some critiques. Your models will be in later this evening for their first fitting. Until then, you have time to work!” He glances around at each of them. “Alright! Get to it. Good luck everyone!” He waves before slipping out of the room.

Magnus doesn’t wait to observe the other designers. He pulls over the sketchbook provided by the show. With only a day to put together an outfit, he feels the panic growing. He twirls his pencil between his fingers.

Who is he as a designer? From where does he draw inspiration? He never needed to call on his inspiration, on his muse, before. She was always there. When he first saw the gorgeous burgundy, gold, and navy fabrics, he felt her stir and bless him with a stunning cocktail dress. Now, he feels her absence like a hole in his chest. He attempts to sketch the basic outline of a body onto the paper. When no clothes magically appear overtop of her, he decides to change tactics.

Magnus throws his pencil down and quickly scans the room. A few others also focus on their sketches, but many of the designers busy themselves with patternmaking and draping the few pieces they managed to cut already. He watches in mild horror as Jordan haphazardly pieces together two chunks of fabric onto his mannequin. Magnus forces himself to shrug and turn away. To each their own.

Behind him, Dot dances around her workstation. Her pattern pieces accumulate quickly. She flashes him a smile when she catches him looking but doesn’t pause her dance-patterning. Magnus notices his station mate patiently sketching, her fabric folded neatly beside her. He drags his sketchbook to her side of the table and leans on the edge of the workspace, facing her.

She doesn’t glance up. “Problems already?”

He sighs and doodles absently in the corner of the page. “My muse took an unprecedented vacation. I’m attempting to coax her back by distracting myself.”

Jocelyn nods slowly. “You know, I didn’t start as a fashion designer. I am an artist by trade, but my medium trended toward paints.” Magnus hums, watching her fingers artfully smudge her sketch in places. “I taught my daughter everything I know. I left her father while I was still pregnant, so it’s been just the two of us for her entire life. She grew up watching me paint and playing with the extra brushes. Once she was old enough, I bought her a set of her own. It wasn’t long before she began to out-paint me.” She smiles ruefully. “Once she set her sights on an art career, I decided to make a life change of my own. Somehow I fell into fashion.” Jocelyn leans back and studies her sketch. “I never thought I would end up here. No formal training, no idea how to manipulate fabric or what pairs well. Everything I learned, I had to teach myself.” She glances up at him. “One thing I learned very quickly? Don’t rely on inspiration or your fickle muse. You need to grab inspiration by the throat and force it to cooperate.”

A startled laugh bursts out of him. “Manhandle my muse into submission. I feel like I should present her with a kink list first.”

Jocelyn chuckles. “Do whatever you need, but don’t allow her to dictate your design process.”

Magnus watches as she begins to trace and cut her pattern pieces. Her methodical movements calm his mind. Out of nowhere, a hint of an idea begins to manifest. He shoots Jocelyn a grateful smile, drags his sketchbook back to his side, and starts to sketch.

* * *

The next several hours disappeared in a haze of cutting, piecing, sewing, and draping. Magnus barely pauses long enough to gulp down the small bottle of water Jocelyn pushes towards him. When Tim returns to the workroom, Magnus has most of his dress draped and a few pieces sewn together.

Tim makes his rounds slowly. By the time he reaches Magnus’s station in the back half of the workroom, Magnus is a ball of anxious energy. His hands tremble slightly as he tries to hand-stitch one of the shoulder straps. He convinces himself it’s from hunger and not nerves. He does not do nervous. The cameras trained on him certainly do not exacerbate the situation, either.

“Magnus!” Tim smiles at him, hands extended toward the mannequin. “How are you? How is the design coming along?”

“I’m the best I’ve ever been, Tim. After all, look where I am!” Magnus throws on a calm smile. It pulls from a confidence hidden deep within him, outside of his awareness. “The design is coming together. I know who I am as a designer and this piece highlights the main three.”

Tim furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “The main three?”

“The main three adjectives that describe my design aesthetic: modern, bold, elegant.” Magnus gestures at the dress draped over the mannequin. “This print fits the boldness. I have never seen anything quite like it, and I hope the judges agree it turns this piece into a one of a kind. Clearly, I wanted it to be a staple in the design, which is why it cuts diagonally across her body. The red skirt here will be pleated and sewn into the rest of the dress. I chose to pleat it in order to give it a bit of depth and definition beyond the print itself. These red arm straps help break up the design a bit more and connect the red into the design. As for the back--” He gently spins the mannequin. “The white fabric is backed in blue to help prevent it from becoming see-through. It also means that it has a slight pop of color from behind as well, though that color is muted.” He steps away from the mannequin and turns to face Tim again. His heart pounds in his chest as he waits for Tim’s verdict. Every twitch of the mentor’s face threatens to send him into minor cardiac arrest.

Finally, Tm smiles. “Well, the print is definitely unique. I appreciate how it cuts across her body, but you break it up on one side with the pleated skirt and on the arm straps. Just focus on finishing it. You have a lot of work ahead of you, especially with the pleats. Keep it up!”

Only when Tim steps away to talk with Jocelyn does Magnus finally take a full breath again. His smile takes on an easy quality. Having clear support from Tim means he’s heading in the right direction. He gently pulls a few pieces off the mannequin and practically skips to the sewing room.

Inside, he finds Lorenzo and a younger woman (did her name tag read Maureen?). Lorenzo narrows his eyes at him as Magnus plans himself in front of the same sewing machine he’s used the past few hours. Maureen’s eyes never leave her machine; the frantic hum of the needle betrays her panic. Magnus blocks out the noise as he carefully aligns his pieces.

“No scathing critique for you, Bane?” Lorenzo shoots at him.

Magnus refuses to look at him. “Quite the contrary.” He chooses to leave it there, aware of the cameraman standing silently in the corner.

Lorenzo must have the same though: he merely huffs and returns to his own work. They sew in silence. Magnus changes out his pieces, carefully avoiding the pinned pleats. He makes a mental note to stitch them in place when he returns to the workroom. Beside him, Lorenzo swears quietly. Maureen stands and exits the room in a flurry of fabric. Magnus follows her a few moments later with significantly less pomp. Tim left while he worked in the sewing room. A quick glance at the clock reveals only twenty minutes remain until the models arrive. He needs to pleat the skirt before then to have an accurate fit for the waist. He hurries to his station to begin hand-sewing.

A light tap on his shoulder interrupts his stitching sometime later. Magnus blinks a few times to clear the haze from his eyes. A pretty, dark-skinned woman smiles at him. “Hi! I’m Jillian, your model.”

His heart sinks slightly. The pleats are only half-finished. He forces a smile back onto his face, though, and shakes her hand with both of his. “Lovely to meet you, dear. I'm Magnus. I have a dress for you, but the pleats aren’t quite finished. So, we’re just going to make it work.”

He shakes out the dress while Jillian strips to her underwear. Thankfully the cameras are carefully averted to avoid capturing too much skin from any of the models. Magnus checks to ensure the only pins remaining in the dress are those securing the unfinished pleats. He helps Jillian step into the dress and pull it up. The zipper isn’t in yet, so he secures the back with a few clothespins. He spends the next few minutes painstakingly pinning the dress to fit her body.

“You really know what you’re doing.”

Magnus glances up from where he’s crouched, fixing the fit around her waist. Jillian watches him with gentle pale green eyes. He raises one eyebrow in question; his mouth is too full of a pair of scissors to ask her anything.

“Well, you haven’t poked me even once, so you are familiar with fitting clothes on a real person. You aren’t jumping from spot to spot like an overwhelmed novice.” Her eyes flick away. Magnus follows her gaze to see poor Maureen trying to pin two places at once, her eyes wide. He grimaces, though remains careful not to poke her. “And you’ve remained surprisingly calm for this being the first runway.”

Magnus stands and takes a step back. He removes the scissors from his mouth. “Spin for me.” As she does a slow twirl, he replies. “I’ve been around the block a time or two.” He holds his hand out for her to stop. “Okay. I think that looks good. How does it feel? Anything poking or generally uncomfortable?”

She does a little shimmy. “Good. Nothing too tight or poking me.” She smooths a hand down the patterned fabric at the front of the dress. “I cannot believe you created this beautiful dress from this fabric. I wouldn’t have thought something so beautiful could come from something so…odd.”

“It wasn’t my first choice. But you make it a showstopper.” Jillian laughs and flashes him a grin as she starts to undress.

The camera director alerts the room that their time with models is over. Jillian, now dressed in her street clothes, throws her arms around his shoulders. Magnus returns the quick hug. He watches as all sixteen models exit the room. Another glance at the clock reveals he only has two hours until the end of the day. With a sigh, he picks up the dress and heads toward the sewing room.

* * *

[♫ Glorious ♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7OrLroFa0AI)

“It’s time to go, everyone.”

Lydia’s voice rings through the room. Magnus peers up at her from where he’s finishing the pleats. The clock near his station reads nine pm. Only a handful of pleats remain to be sewn. After adjusting the waist of the skirt to fit his model, he needed to rip out a few pleats to readjust. He quickly jots down a few short notes to himself before following the other designers out of the room.

The same fleet of taxis ferries them to Atlas. The three other designers crammed into the van with Magnus remain quiet throughout the car ride. He doesn’t know any of them, though the woman in the group may be named Lily. Arriving at Atlas, they all pile out and head into the sleek lobby. A guard nods at them from behind his desk. The camera crew director leads them to the hallway by the elevators. Her crew remains in the lobby. The cameras turned off after the designers left the workroom. For the first time since arriving at Washington Square Park, Magnus feels the weight of those cameras lift from his skin. They gather in the hallway by the elevators. Instead of proceeding upstairs, the camera director begins to speak.

“Good evening. I don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself. I apologize; days like today make me a bit crazy. I’m Tessa Herondale. I am the daytime director. After you go up to your rooms, I’m out of here and Emma Carstairs, our nighttime director, will take over. Our camera crew also switches over for the night. If you need anything, feel free to let the lobby crew know. They will contact Emma if needed.

“Now, I’ll divvy you all up and hand out your keys to your apartment. Once you have your keys, you may head up to your rooms. Camera crews won’t follow you tonight, but they will in the future. Expect them to return at 5:30 am tomorrow morning. Now, rooms. In the first female room…”

Magnus tunes out the names in favor of grimacing at the preposterous call time. No way will he be caught on camera without his makeup! But dragging his body out of bed before call time sounds equally dreadful. Usually he rolls out of bed at eight am to make it to work by nine thirty. He gets away with it because more often than not he stays late for a new story. It also helps to know the boss personally – not that Ragnor truly plays favorites –

Tessa calling his name breaks him from his thoughts. “Magnus, Alec, Andrew, and Jordan, you are in Apartment 514.”

Excitement pulses through him. Sharing a room with Tall Dark and Handsome! Maybe waking up at the asscrack of dawn won’t be so bad if he gets to see that stunning face. He follows the other three into the elevator, key in hand. Jordan strikes up a conversation the moment the elevator begins moving.

“Hullo, I’m Jordan. I met Magnus there on the way to Parsons, but I don’t know you two.”

Andrew sticks out a hand to Jordan. Magnus hasn’t officially met him, but he has exchanged a few words with both Jordan and Alec. Process of elimination: the sturdy man with light brown curls must be Andrew. “I’m Andrew Underhill. I come from Charleston, so I’m part of the East.”

Jordan shakes his hand. “Jordan Kyle, from Huntington Beach, California.” He turns to Alec. “Please tell me you come from the West somewhere”

Alec shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m from Brooklyn. Alec Lightwood.”

Magnus blinks. “Lightwood? Any relation to Isabelle Lightwood, perchance?”

Alec cocks his head. “She’s my sister.”

He laughs. “Well, what a coincidence. I work with her at Downworld Fashion.”

The elevator dings ending their sudden connection conversation. The door opens to reveal a plain white hallway with clean navy carpet. A plaque strategically placed on the wall opposite the elevator points apartments 530 and lower to the right. They walk quietly down the hallway until they find the unobtrusive white door marked “514”. Andrew, in the lead, unlocks the door and steps inside.

A short hallway empties into a living room-turned-bedroom. A door just inside the front entry leads to a small bathroom. The kitchenette sits to the left at the end of the hallway, connected to the now-bedroom. A tiny island separates the two areas.

Right away, Magnus notices only three beds. While the other three men poke around the kitchen, Magnus peers into a small alcove across the room from the kitchenette. Two doors hide within it. The first one holds towels and various cleaning supplies. The second one, though, holds a twin bed and a mini dresser with an attached mirror.

A private bedroom! Magnus steps inside and runs his fingers over the pristine white comforter. He can see deep blue sheets poking out at the head of the bed. The walls are painted a soft cream color in an effort to make the space seem bigger than it truly is. A window on the opposite wall offers a view of the street below. As the hour isn’t too late (by New York’s and his own standards), the street bustles with people.

He sits heavily on the bed as the stress of the day catches up with him. Today surpassed all expectations. While he trusted his ability to adapt to whatever design challenge was thrown his way, he was entirely caught off-guard by the emotional upheaval. He should have known: he has followed Project Runway since its inception. The emotional rollercoaster tends to appear sooner rather than later when it comes to contestants. Yet he was wholly unprepared to regulate his own emotions. The stress, the fear and excitement, the exhaustion…and it’s only Day One.

A knock on the door breaks him from his musings. Alec stands in the doorway, Magnus’s suitcase beside him. The other man’s eyes rove over the room. Every time they land on Magnus, they widen slightly before skittering away. Magnus restrains a smirk. The poor boy is far too skittish for his brand of flirting.

“Can I help you handsome?” Alec’s eyes finally land and stick on him. Just as he opens his mouth, Magnus tacks on, “Also, dibs on the room. You do not want to share that tiny bathroom mirror with me.”

A chuckle rumbles out of Alec. “No argument from me. I um, I thought you would want your suitcase. They were tucked away in the corner of the living—um, the bedroom, I guess? But, yeah, I figured you had dibs so I brought it, so you could have a clear stake on the area.”

Magnus smiles at him. “You sound familiar with the rules of dibs.” He beckons Alec forward. The taller man moves tentatively, as though he is somehow trespassing in Magnus’s space.

“I have three younger siblings. Dibs is, uh, sort of sacred.” Alec lifts the suitcase onto the bed. Magnus quickly unzips it and begins to unpack his things onto the comforter. After a moment, he stands to line his shoes beneath the window. Alec’s surprised voice follows him. “What are you doing?”

Magnus glances up from where he’s begun folding clothes into the dresser drawers. “Unpacking. You cannot expect me to live out of a suitcase for the next few weeks.”

“But what happens if you’re eliminated tomorrow?” Immediately Alec’s eyes widen in alarm. “N-Not that you’ll be eliminated! Your dress, it’s really great, obviously you won’t go home, I just meant—”

Magnus chuckles and raises his hand to silence the other man. “Relax, darling. No offense taken. In response to your question, I’m unpacking because living out of a suitcase breeds homesickness. It also creates wrinkles. Of course, storing silk shirts in a dresser clearly purchased from IKEA is a crime, but it helps me feel like a civilized person.” He shuts the dresser drawers, now full of clothes, and stands. His makeup case and travel jewelry box rest on either side of the dresser mirror. In the reflection, he sees Alec shifting his weight from foot to foot. Clearly uncomfortable with…something. Magnus chooses not to draw attention to it in fear of driving Alec away. “Have you three already fought over the remaining beds?”

Alec’s shifting ceases. “Um, sort of? We didn’t, uh, argue so much. Andrew hates sleeping next to windows and I need to be closest to the door, so we sorted it out pretty quickly.”

“You prefer to sleep near the door? Alexander, you are the only person I’ve met who prefers that. Why in the world would you want to sleep closest to the door, where intruders come in?”

Tension straightens Alec’s spine suddenly. He grins his jaw as though biting back words. After a tense moment, he shrugs stiffly. “Just an instinct, I guess.”

Magnus senses the other man’s lie in his uncomfortableness about his answer, but allows it to drop. He stretches his arms overhead. “Well, Alexander, if we are truly waking up at five thirty, then I need to get to bed. One doesn’t look this gorgeous without a healthy amount of beauty sleep.” Alec blushes. He stammers out a few non-words as he takes a few steps towards the door. Magnus smirks at him. He really is cute when he blushes. “Not that I don’t enjoy having you in my bedroom.” He offers the spluttering man a wink as he leads them out of the private room.

In the main room, Andrew and Jordan lounge on their beds. Jordan now wears a ratty pair of cotton pants with cartoon sponges on them and a gray tank; Magnus assumes these are his pajamas. He waves at them as he slips into the bathroom. Alec’s voice joins their conversation. Magnus listens to them discuss the runway tomorrow. His own excitement bubbles in his chest. A touch of nerves hides beneath it, but Magnus focuses on the excitement. Tomorrow marks the true start to the competition. He grins as he completes his nighttime routine, now clad in soft silk pajamas. Rushing back to his room, he tosses a quick “good night” before closing his door. Best to remove his makeup in privacy. He gently swipes it off before flicking off the light. Sliding beneath the covers, he double-checks his phone alarm is set for four thirty am. A grimace twists his face at having to wake up so early.

“The things we do for beauty,” he mutters to himself. He rolls onto his side to face the window, now hidden behind the curtains. A small smile lifts his lips as he eases into sleep.


End file.
